My mother was tall and willowy, with smooth, light golden skin and long, layered, sun-blonde hair--flaxen hair descended from her Norwegian blood--that almost glints white in the sunlight. She has elegant features and high cheekbones, the kind that any fantasy fanboy may have imagined a regal elven queen to bear. She's slender and tight, with a flowing body unobstructed by the cut of leanness that some CrossFit moms have going for them. Her breasts were just over a handful, while her butt was small, widening sideways from her hips like a pear. Her cheeks were round and as golden as the rest of her skin thanks to the sunbathing she did in her whale-tale, micro G-strings that I'm sure I'm not supposed to know about, but I did. my mother, who wore her hair up and knotted at the back of her head, loose strands hanging in an artsy mess. Then my eyes drifted downward. A creamy-white knitted cardigan adorned her body, the wooden buttons were undone straight down the center of her torso. On the table, where Dad ate his breakfast, lay a pair of pajama pants, a shirt, a bra, and a skimpy pair of lacy, thong panties. Mom sat with the chair angled toward the kitchen island, her left leg on the floor, her right on her seat, open and giving me a window to the blonde pussy between her thighs. She had her paper in her left hand and was eating her pears with her right, her white teeth snapping into the porous fruit, but none of the juices dripped past her full lips.